‘Come in,’ he cried.
The new visitor availed himself of the invitation. He was a tremendous fellow to look at, with something of an animal expression, with a loud voice, and a little bloated about the face, as if he took rather more beer than was good for him. His hands were rather grimy, his clothes were the worse for wear, and he had a short pipe in his mouth, which he was about to put out, but did not, as he saw Wentworth was smoking himself.
‘Your name, sir?’ said Wentworth.
‘My name—you know me well enough. My name is Johnson—I was at your meeting to-night, and you and I have met before.’
‘Yes, you were there, as you say—one of my noisiest opponents, I believe—and now I think of it, when I was at Sloville, you were one of the Chartists who tried to put me down.’
‘You’re right, Mr. Wentworth.’
‘Happy to renew the acquaintance. To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?’
‘Well, you see, we are in now for an election, and I flatter myself the winning candidate will be the man for whom I vote.’
‘Is that so?’